Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 72480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Left to watch the one woman I love be torn away from me.
“Harper!” I growl as the guard grabs my wrists and forces them together on my back so he can put new cuffs on.
“Marcello!” Harper screams. “No! Let me go!”
But the guy marches straight out of the room with her on his shoulder as though she’s an easy victim. And when the door slams shut, my heart shatters into a million little pieces.
Her cries go through marrow and bone.
“LET HER FUCKING GO!” I roar, rage filling me up like a volcano that’s about to burst.
“You wish,” the guard quips, laughing like he’s enjoying my misery as he chains both my hands and feet up to the bed, strapping me in place.
“I’ll do anything. Trade places. Her life for mine,” I say, trying to speak to the good side in his soul if he even has any.
But the click-clacking of heels distracts me from the guard.
“Well, well … if it isn’t Marcello begging on his deathbed. I’m so glad I was able to witness that before your life is over,” Molly muses as she steps into the doorway.
“Take my life. Not hers,” I repeat, ignoring her obvious taunts.
She merely smirks. “You think I want her life?” Her brow rises. “Marcello …” She walks toward me and grabs my chin, digging her fingers into my skin. “All I want … is for you to feel the same despair I felt when you two hurt my husband.”
The last word comes out in a hiss as she throws my head back and turns her back to me again.
“So you’re just going to torture her like you did me? What kind of mother are you?” I say.
The guard leaves first, holding open the door for her.
She throws me a wicked glance over her shoulder. “Haven’t you heard? I’m not her mother.”
Her stone-cold eyes make mine widen as I realize what she is about to do.
“And I think you can guess who is going to pay for that,” she muses.
“No. Don’t touch her. Don’t!” I yell, but she slams the door in my face, leaving me with nothing but my own fury to rot in.
I roar out loud again and again, but no one comes in to pin me down again or keep me quiet even though I want them to. Even though I’m challenging them to do it. Because fighting them is the only way I can ever hope to get out.
What the fuck do I do?
And what is going to happen to listen?
The thought of them hurting her like they did to me ruins me, turns me insane, and I direct all my attention at the camera, and yell, “I GIVE UP! You win, Molly! Do you hear me? You can have me. I’m giving up. Do with me what you want. Just don’t fucking hurt Harper. She’s innocent.”
There’s no response. Maybe there isn’t anyone left to watch those cameras from the other end.
Fuck!
Suddenly, the door opens again, the sound making my ears and eyes perk up. But no one storms in like usual. “Who’s there?”
After a few seconds, someone sneaks in, taking ample time to check the area before closing the door and throwing a blanket over the cameras. Only then does he turn around to face me.
I frown at the guy who just looks at me like he’s seen a ghost, his beard scruffy and badly kempt, the hair on his head not in any better shape. Who the fuck is this dude, and what the fuck is he doing in my cell if not to torture me?
“Marcello,” he says, frowning right back at me. “Don’t you recognize me?”
My face scrunches up. What the fuck is the meaning of this?
That’s when he rips off his mustache and beard, chucking away his apparent wig as well.
“Ricardo?” I ask. “That you?”
“Of course it’s me,” he replies. “Who else would come here and wear a wig to save your motherfucking ass?”
He looks me up and down and makes a face. “You look horrible.”
“Thanks,” I say. “How did you get in here?” At this point, I might as well be hallucinating.
He walks to me and fishes a key from his pocket. Only now that I’ve taken a good look at him do I realize he’s wearing the same outfit all the other guards here wear with the Irish Family emblem stitched at the top.
“You’re one of them now?”
“Pretending is the keyword here,” he replies, stuffing the key into the lock and unlocking the cuffs. “Mario’s amazing idea.”
I get up and rub my wrists while he works on my ankles. “And the Irish just let you walk in looking like that?”
“Well … we’re talking about the Irish here,” he retorts, laughing a little. “They have more muscles than brains. Besides, they were a little too busy with Harper to even notice me. All the easier it was for me to knock one of theirs out and steal this damn key.”